


Bleak Midwinter

by Avourellion



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Author is v sleep deprived, Everything about Mae turns into angst, Family Feels, Fingon is a lovesick fool, Fingon visits Maedhros, Himring, I get serious Winterfell vibes from Himring, I'm a hopeless romantic, M/M, Maedhros hates himself, Orc Hunting, Russingon, Slash, War against Morgoth, anyone else? - Freeform, but might change it to explicit later, idk we'll just see where this goes, literally running on caffeine and spite, please point out all my mistakes and typos, rated mature for now, surprise visit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:54:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25699891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avourellion/pseuds/Avourellion
Summary: Though Fingon has absolute faith in Maedhros's role as Lord of Himring and his ability to maintain the war against Morgoth, he has significantly less faith in Maedhros's ability to take care of himself. When he pays a surprise visit to Himring, he finds Maedhros is even more haunted and broken than he expected, and he tries to make things right and heal the void that has come between them.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Implied Sauron | Mairon/Maedhros | Maitimo, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36





	Bleak Midwinter

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta-ed. If you're willing to beta future chapters, please leave a comment.

Findekáno's - Fingon's, Maedhros reminded himself.

Though Thingol had enacted a ban on Quenya, he much preferred his birth tongue to the Sindarin of Beleriand, and he did little to enforce the ban all the way out here, save for when others were visiting that may not be so lenient.

 _Fingon's_ arrival was unexpected, to say the least. The Lord of Himring had only received notice that the crown prince would be visiting late the day before, surely weeks after Fingon and his party had left Hithlum. He had cursed Fingon in twenty different ways when he got the letter before sending Lirion, his steward, to see to it that rooms were prepared and food made.

The next day, he was up on the ramparts as soon as the sun was up, pacing to stay warm and watching the snowy landscape for the first sign of the prince's arrival. Three times Lirion joined him, asking him to come inside before he froze. He appreciated his steward's concern, he politely declined, though he did accept the hot suith, a spiced, lightly alcoholic beverage Lirion brought each time, and let it restore some degree of warmth to his fingers.

It was just after sun-high when he first spotted Fingon's company far off, cresting a hill. There were more of them than Maedhros expected, though he knew High King Fingolfin probably had insisted on it. He knew from experience that it would still take nearly an hour to cross the remaining distance over the snowy plain and climb the steep road up to the fortress. It was perched on the highest tip of a triangle of land that jutted out from the earth, much like the prow of a ship. The only way up was through a crack in the rock, cutting a narrow path up through the plateau. Maedhros's people had nicknamed the path the Chimney, for it seemed as though the walls were pressing in around you as you rode up through it. It was narrow, only wide enough for two riders side by side, but it was easily defensible and that was what was needed this close to Angband, not practicality.

Satisfied that Fingon would be well across the frozen plain, Maedhros at last turned inside to change into something more appropriate for greeting the prince. He was digging through his closet when Lirion came in.

"Anyone ever tell you to knock?"

His steward smiled. "You. Many times." Lirion's smile faded slightly. "It was good that I haven't knocked in the past."

Maedhros remembered that... _incident_... well enough. "Do not speak of that, Lirion."

"Of course not, my lord. What may I do to help you now?"

Maedhros ran a hand through the wind-knots in his fiery russet hair. "If you'd help me turn this mess into something manageable?"

Lirion was only his steward in title, but they were more than that. They weren't friends, not really, but the more he thought about it, the other Noldo was the closest thing he had to a friend here. He felt nothing toward him, of course, nothing more than was expected. Certainly nothing like his complicated, surging emotions about Fingon. 

Lirion came up behind him and started working through the knots with a bone-tooth comb. He was careful not to let his fingers touch Maedhros's scalp or neck directly, and for that, the lord was grateful. Ever since his torment in Angband and upon Thangorodrim he had not been able to stand the touch of another elf's skin upon his own. Everyone in Himring knew that: their lord was not, under any circumstances, to be touched. There had been an exception to that rule only once, when an orc had driven his blade through Maedhros's stomach and his healer had had to patch him up. It was unavoidable that her fingers grazed his abdomen, though she'd done her best, but Maedhros had felt every touch like a painful, burning, unholy sensation. They had touched him and they should not because he was sullied and unclean and a monster. He'd denied any sort of painkillers, trying to loose himself in the pain.

Lirion twisted his red locks into a loose braid to hang down his back. Maedhros hated that Lirion had to be the one to do this, and even more that he was unable to do it himself. If anyone were to do his hair for him, it would be Fingon or Maglor that he'd choose, or even Nerdanel. The long winters he'd spent in Himring, when the passes were snowed shut and there were no battles to fight, he found himself missing his parents even more. His father, dead, and his mother, all the way back in Valinor. He doubted he'd see either of them again.

"Is that all, my lord?" he asked as he finished.

"Yes. Thank you, Lirion." His steward bowed and left.

Maedhros turned back to his closet. In the end, he elected to wear a long sleeved black tunic, over which went a shirt of ringmail then a red tabard embroidered with the star of his house in silver and gold thread. A black belt that held his sword and a dagger - on the right side, so he could draw them with his left hand, his right being a useless stump - wrapped around his waist thrice, securing the edges of the tabard. He wasn't sure why he put the mail on. He wasn't expecting to have to fight, but giving a strong impression wouldn't hurt Fingon or his escort. Dull silver bracers with golden burnished stars went on his forearms, and he tucked the loose end of his sleeve under the metal, completely covering the stump of his wrist. Almost as an afterthought he pulled on a black cloak of heavy fabric, folds of dark silver fur falling around his shoulders and black straps crossing over his chest and under his arms to hold its bulk in place.

Dressing with only one hand took significantly longer than it used to, and by the time he'd made it down to the steps from the great hall into the courtyard, Lirion had already assembled most of Himring's inhabitants. His soldiers lined the pillars around the edges of the square courtyard, several horsemasters and stablehands stood waiting to take their horses, and many others were assembled in neat lines on either side of the steps.

His Captain of the Guard, a dark-haired Noldo named Turchanor, saluted him.

Maedhros returned the salute, stopping before him.

"We're ready for Emil Fingon's arrival, hir nín," he said.

"Thank you, captain. I regret that I was unable to give you more warning as to his arrival. I only found out last night, when you did."

"Thank you, but that isn't necessary. We were able to ready Himring quickly enough."

Before Maedhros could reply, there was a shout from up on the ramparts. "They're here!"

"Open the gates!" Maedhros called back.

The portcullis rose upward silently, as did the massive twin gates. They were Curufin's design and had never malfunctioned, not like other heavy mechanisms Maedhros had used in the past.

Fingon surged through the open portcullis, his horse's hooves clattering on the rough paving stones of Himring's central courtyard. The rest of his escort thundered in behind him, fanning out into a defensive two-rowed half circle around the crown prince. So long ago, that title had belonged to Maedhros. _Crown Prince_. He wasn't jealous, no, but it was hard thinking of his friend by that title.

Yes, despite whatever may have happened between them in the past, Fingon was his _friend_ and his cousin and his prince, and nothing more. It was too complicated, too painful. Once they might have been lovers, back in Valinor, but no longer.

Maedhros descended the steps to greet Fingon, flanked on either side by Turchanor and Lirion.

Fingon swung off of his horse, a massive silver mare, and passed the reins to one of Maedhros's waiting stablehands. Fingon gave her a grateful nod and a word of thanks.

Maedhros smiled internally - Finno had always been good at winning people over.

"My lord," he said, bowing. Behind him Lirion and Turchanor followed suit. "Himring is yours."

"I thank you for it," Fingon replied with the same distant, cold formality. "Your hospitality is most welcome after weeks in the saddle."

At his words, Maedhros straightened and gestured to the doors of the main hall. "Shall I show you inside so that you may avail yourself of what little comforts Himring has to offer?"

"I should like to first see to it that my escort settles in to their rooms and our mounts are cared for, but after that has been taken care of I will certainly take you up on your offer."

Maedhros felt as though they were dancing on ice with their formality. Part of him yearned for the days when they could be open with each other, when they were safe. That was in Valinor, he thought, locking it away. It was easy, now, to rid himself of unwanted thoughts, pushing them to the back of his mind until he forgot them. That was a long time ago. Things are different now.

"Of course, my lord." He did a quick count. Two dozen riders, all told, and he knew Fingon would have insisted on less were it not for his position as crown prince. "Lirion, would you please show King Fingon's escort to their chambers? I shall assist with what needs must be done."

Lirion placed his hand over his heart and gestured outward to his lord in a salute. "My lord," he said, then, almost as an afterthought, saluted Fingon as well. "My prince."

The rest of Fingon's escort had dismounted after their king had, and the horses had all been brought to the stables. Save for four of them - Fingon's personal guards and captains, Maedhros assumed - went with Lirion into the fortress.

Fingon himself gestured to the stables. "I would like to see to my mount myself, if possible?"

"You need not ask permission from me, my lord."

A flash of irritation crossed Fingon's face and was gone just as quickly. Maedhros knew Fingon hated to be so formal around him, and hated even more this game they played.

"Of course. Do you wish do join me?"

"If my lord commands me to."

"It was an invitation," Fingon said at last. Without waiting for a reply, he swept off toward the stables, his heavy blue riding cloak rippling behind him. The tension in the air lessened slightly, but he still felt as though one wrong word would send him and Fingon into a fistfight on the ground. His guards followed - good.

Maedhros was reluctant to be alone with Fingon, for good or ill. When he entered the stable after the others, Fingon had already shed his cloak and was in the stall with his horse, scratching it at the base of its ears with one hand, the other cupping its velvety nose. Three stablehands, two of them young apprentices, stood at the end of the row of stalls, gaping at their crown prince dirtying his hands like one of them. They had seen Maedhros here often enough, as he made a point to show that he was not above doing what they were doing. Eru, he'd even spent several days helping with dishes in the kitchen as he relearned how to do even the simplest of tasks with only one hand. The crown prince was an entirely different matter, though. The Lord of Himring flicked his good hand at the stablehands, dismissing them.

"You have a magnificent mount, my lord," Maedhros said after they were gone.

"Her name is Faelas."

"A fitting name."

And indeed it was. The horse was dappled silver and grey and white, with a mane and tail black as Fingon's own hair, as well as the long dark feathering around her feet.

Maedhros picked up a brush from the basket on the stall door and passed it over to the prince. He was careful not to let their fingers touch, and if Fingon noticed, he did not comment on it. He worked in silence for several minutes, brushing through Faelas's coat and combing wind-snarls from her mane.

"How do you like it out here?" Fingon said at last.

"I beg your pardon, my lord?"

"How has Himring been suiting you? You were never one for cold climates such as this one."

Talking about the past. That was dangerous territory, and Maedhros let him know it, a hard edge in his voice.

"It suits me well enough, my lord, though we do not often get visitors, as it is not as agreeable to most others as it is us." Fingon pulled several small, dark brown objects from a pouch on his belt. He held a few out for Maedhros - palm down, so he could drop them into his hand. Good, so Fingon had noticed how Maedhros did not like to be touched. They turned out to be pellets of honeyed oats and crystallized molasses, each one the size of the last joint on his thumb.

Faelas shoved her nose at Maedhros's hand, and he held the treats out for her, flat palmed. Her breath was warm on his hand, steaming slightly even within the relative warmth of the stables. When all was said and done, the two of them passed back through the courtyard and into the great hall.

The first thing Fingon did was dismiss his three guards. "Go, rest," he said to them. "Thank you." They bowed and turned to go.

Without a pause Maedhros made a hand gesture at two of his own soldiers standing at either side of the door, and they wordlessly took their places behind the two lords. Fingon's eyes narrowed, and Maedhros knew he was onto the game of not allowing them to be alone together, though he made no comment.

"We have completed that new wing since you were last here, my lord," Maedhros said, gesturing to a new corridor branching off from the main hallway that ran across the hall.

"What is down there?" "A library, and we moved the healer's quarters into a larger room there. We also expanded on the pantries and cold storage."

"Is it not cold enough outside?" Maedhros narrowed his eyes. Was Fingon making a joke?

"No, my lord," he responded, choosing a response that could be interpreted either direction. Fingon turned to follow the new hallway. They walked without talking, the only sound the tap of their boots on the floor and the rattle of Maedhros and his guard's armor. Fingon was the one to finally break the silence.

"You don't want to talk to me, do you?" Of all the questions he could have asked, why did he have to choose one that was so difficult? He was usually so good with words, but around Fingon he felt like he was constantly fumbling.

"I have other things on my mind, my lord," he said at last. "Forgive me if I do not devote my full attention to you."

Fingon's eyes narrowed. "Not to worry, Maedhros. I fully understand. Come to my rooms later and we can discuss things without distractions, shall we?

Maedhros cursed mentally. Of course Fingon would find a way to get him alone, and he'd phrased it as an order. Maedhros having his soldiers behind him had backfired in the sense that they had heard the order, and he couldn't pretend to have misunderstood it now.

Maedhros sighed, bowed, and excused himself before he strangled his cousin.

~~~~~~~~

Several hours later, a foul-mooded and reluctant Maedhros rapped on the doors to Fingon's rooms.

There was a splash, then his cousin called, "Who is it?"

He paused. "Maedhros." He had debated saying Maitimo, but that name had other meanings, and he didn't want to be giving Fingon ideas or thoughts that weren't what he had intended.

"Come in," Fingon replied.

The main sitting room was empty, though a fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering lights and unnaturally dark shadows across the room. He wove around the low table and carved wood chairs in the middle of the room into the bedroom, and followed the sound of water into the bathing room off to the side.

Fingon was sprawled in the tub, one arm over the side and his eyes closed, resting his head back against the lip. He opened his eyes as Maedhros walked in, looking him up and down. For his part, Maedhros made a point to keep his eyes fixed on Fingon's face, ignoring the rest of his body, blurry beneath the water. He'd seen Fingon naked before of course, and many times. There wasn't a part of each other's bodies they didn't know.

 _Except for all my scars_ , Maedhros thought. _Of course, he might have seen all those as I was healing._

"I must thank you," Fingon said, breaking into Maedhros's thoughts. "It's been weeks since I've had a proper bath."

Maedhros refused to let the corners of his lips twitch up. _Ercha_ , the longer he was around his cousin, the more he was falling apart. Evidently his walls weren't nearly as high or as strong as he'd thought. "Do streams and rivers not count? I thought you crossed the Sirion."

"Too cold, especially the farther north you go. And it's too much work to heat enough of it over a fire."

Maedhros took a seat on a tiled seat built into a wall - though they were closer to small flagstones than actual tiles - and crossed his arms. His mail shirt clinked against the stone, though muted through his heavy fur-lined cloak. "Forgive me for not asking earlier, my lord. How fare you father and your siblings?"

"Don't call me that," Fingon said, flicking a few droplets of water at him. "We're alone, Maedhros, we don't have to play the prince and vassal."

A pang shot through his heart. Unbidden memories swirled to the front of his mind.

_Findekáno, still a child, though hardly younger than Maitimo himself, on the back of a horse, grinning back at him as they raced across a field, the gold wire in his hair gleaming as it tossed in the wind._

_Findekáno floating on naked his back in the deep pool beneath the waterfall they'd found, in their secret spot, water droplets gleaming on his nut-brown skin, reaching up to pull Maitimo down with him._

_Findekáno, older now, lying curled up against Maitimo's side under the muted, silver light of Telperion, leaning up to press his mouth to Maitimo's in a sweet, deep kiss._

Maedhros cursed out loud, letting the Quenya words slip out. Fingon only looked faintly amused. "What was that about?"

"Nothing." He paused, more to gather himself than to think about what to say. "We are not pretending. That is what we are. You are my lord and my prince. I am loyal to you and I am your sworn servant. We are nothing more than prince and vassal."

Fingon's face was unbelievably open and sad. He let out a shaking sigh but didn't press the matter.

"To answer your question, Maedhros. I have not heard from Turgon directly for several years now, though Aredhel writes regularly and always includes a message from him. Father... I worry for him. The crown is heavy, and he spends more time in war meetings and working with his ledgers and training with his soldiers than he does eating and sleeping." He tilted his head. "Not unlike someone else. Though I don't doubt for your ability as Lord of Himring, I have far less confidence in your ability to care for yourself."

"I am doing perfectly well, my lord."

"Maedhros. Stop. Can we not pretend for a moment we are somewhere else? Anywhere but here, and I am not the Crown Prince and you are not Lord of Himring?"

Maedhros met Fingon's eyes this time. "We could pretend, but all it would be is a lie, and I prefer not to lie to myself."

"Then why do you?"

Maeedhros flinched, pinning his ears against the side of his head. Or rather, his left ear and the tatters that were left of his right, even smaller than the ears of a man. Fingon had hit too close, was too perceptive.

Fingon seemed to take his silence as an answer. Maedhros tensed, almost like a cornered animal, ready to shoot to his feet and stalk out.

After a moment of terse silence Fingon pointed to a towel hanging from a carved wood hook. "Pass it." he said, more of a command than a question. His voice had gone cold, and he spoke in that of the prince. Maedhros did as he was bid and held it out. His cousin reached to take it, purposely bringing their hands close together, but Maedhros let go. They both watched the towel billow to the ground before Fingon scooped it back up, his eyes sad and distand, before rising from the tub, shaking water droplets off of his body. They rolled down his chest and over his stomach and - Maedhros looked away.

Fingon laughed bitterly. "Even now you lie to yourself." He was right and they both knew it.

"I do not want you," Maedhros said quietly. Another lie, but he'd spent so long telling it to himself that perhaps it was now the truth. "Perhaps once I did, but no longer. I do not harbour any such feelings for you, my lord." Fingon hissed angrily and stalked back into the bedroom. Maedhros followed a moment later, watching Fingon throw on trousers and yank a tunic over his head. It didn't quite fit, far too long and a bit loose around the shoulders, as it was one of Maedhros's own, but they'd get something better for him later.

"Why are you so angry with me?" he asked, a touch of sarcasm on the words. "Have I misspoken, my lord?"

"Yes, you have," snarled Fingon. He was slow to anger, but Maedhros knew from experience that Fingon was calm up until his breaking point, and he had finally reached it. "You lie to me, you lie to yourself, you lie to everyone. How can you stand all-" he waved a hand wildly "-this? You push away anyone who comes close to you. You block everyone out. I spoke to Maglor recently, and Caranthir as well. They say the same: they try to help you and you lash out at them and shut them away. Because, _a ércat,_ but you're hurting, and shoving everyone away isn't going to help you!"

His words were bordering dangerously on yelling. Someone would likely hear, but what would it matter if they did? They had all seen the tension between the cousins when Fingon had arrived, and they knew their lord well enough to be certain it would boil over.

_To hell with showing respect to his prince._

"You think I like this?" Maedhros snarled right back. "You think I like living like this, every day, hating myself? I am a murderer and a monster, Findekáno. And I am broken. Ruined. Who would follow me if they knew what I was? We are at war. One misstep will cost us all our lives. I cannot afford to show weakness, or I will break, and be a weeping mess that cannot be replaced. If I allow anyone close to me I will crack, mark my words, and Himring will fall and Angband will be free to take the north and enter Beleriand through our passes. I cannot afford anything. I cannot afford distractions and I do not deserve comfort or delicate pleasures or _you_ , Fingon." He bared his teeth in what was half a wild snarl, half a maniacal grin. "I cannot afford them and I do not deserve them because I am a monster and I am broken."

Fingon had gone pale during Maedhros's rant. "Nelyo-" he began but broke off. He reached out as though to touch Maedhros's face.

The lord smacked Fingon's arm aside with his left arm, fingers curling around Fingon's sleeved wrist. He held the stump of his right up to shield his face. "Do not touch me," he hissed, shoving Fingon's hand back a him.

He turned to leave when- a slight scuff of bare feet on stone was all the warning he got before Fingon lunged forward and grabbed Maedhros's still-upraised right arm, wrapping his fingers around bare skin where his sleeve had slipped down to his elbow. Maedhros couldn't stop the half-growl, half-scream noise that came from his mouth as someone, for the first time in over a hundred years, truly touched him.

He was so shocked that he couldn't resist when Fingon yanked him forward by his arm, their bodies together, and crashed his lips into Maedhros's. The kiss was ugly and messy and nothing like the ones they had shared back in Valinor. And Eru damn him, but Maedhros didn't pull away as he ought to have. He stayed, his treacherous left hand digging into Fingon's hair, tangling in his braids and pulling the two of them together. After what seemed like an eternity, but could hardly have been more than a heartbeat, he scraped together all of his will and ripped away from Fingon, a hundred thousand thoughts flashing through his head.

"Do not EVER try that again," he spat, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He wasn't sure what the emotion in Fingon's eyes was as he stood there. Perhaps he was just as surprised by what he had done as Maedhros himself was.

The Lord of Himring - not Maedhros, he needed to seperate himself from that person. Be cold, be distant, be terrifyingly formal.

"I will see you at dinner, emil nín," the Lord of Himring said with frosty hostility, the words colder than the snowy plains surrounding the fortress. And with those parting words he swept out the door, his cloak whirling around him like giant wings.

**Author's Note:**

> Hir Nin: Sindarin. 'My lord'  
> Emil Nin: Sindarin. 'My prince'  
> Ercha: Sindarin. 'To prick' - used euphemistically as 'fuck' 
> 
> I'm sorry I left this so angsty... everything Mae turns into angst.


End file.
